


It's Tough to Have a Crush

by obliviateme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Art, Background Het, Background Relationships, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Crushes, Cute, Fire, Fluff, Hogwarts Sixth Year, I'm Bad At Tagging, Laughter, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Canonical Character(s), One Shot, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Sharing a Bed, Singing, Slash, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obliviateme/pseuds/obliviateme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Thomas has had a crush on Seamus Finnigan since second year. Four years later, Seamus kisses him on the way back from a Hogsmeade trip. A week after that, they still haven't spoken about it. Dean struggles to bring up his feelings, and he's not sure if Seamus will let him down about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Tough to Have a Crush

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the things that happen when I’d rather not pay attention in class… Hmm, wonder where I got my inspiration to write Binns… This is my first Dean/Seamus, and I’m pretty pumped about it! This is probably the fastest I’ve ever written a fic. I’d love to know your thoughts. xoxo Tianna

~*~

 

_Well it’s tough to have a crush_

_Whoever knew such hullabaloo_

_Well it’s tough to have a crush_

_When it only leaves you blue_

_Perhaps they’ll find you in the river in a month or two_

_Well it’s tough (so tough) to crush on you_

-It’s Tough to Have a Crush, OK Go

 

~*~

 

24 May 1997

 

Dean traipsed side by side with Seamus, back from their weekly trip to Hogsmeade. It was nearing midnight on a Saturday, and they almost never got back to the castle so late. Dean just wanted to be invisible, or for Filch to miraculously stumble across a whole corridor’s worth of Dungbombs. They should’ve had a plan.

 

“Didn’t Hermione’s drink look good?” Seamus was saying, watching Dean intently. “I always want to order one of those, but I don’t want to look like a girl, you know?”

 

“Mmm,” Dean murmured in agreement. “Ron embarrassed himself as usual. God, he just needs to get on with it already.”

 

“Those two literally kill me,” Seamus said, a notch too loud. “If I catch them googly eyeing over Harry in Transfiguration one more time – I mean, why not just shag in the corridor already…”

 

Dean laughed. “Hermione? I think she’d rather die.”

 

They made it to the castle through a side entrance, sneaking along the tall majestic walls and trying their best not to let their footsteps echo. Every week staying quiet proved more difficult than they thought it would be.

 

“Over here,” Seamus hissed, and yanked at Dean’s arm. He pulled him behind a statue of a one-eyed, hump-backed witch and nearly pressed his friend’s body flat against the wall. Seamus stared at Dean’s face, mere inches away. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Dean in what seemed like hours, and Dean was starting to wonder if he had chocolate muffin in his teeth or something. From the way Seamus was watching him, the whole muffin might’ve been crammed in there.

 

“Why play around? Let’s just run,” Dean whispered.

 

“No, no, this is Filch’s spot,” Seamus said, eyebrows rising with intention.

 

“How would you know? You’re never out after midnight.”

 

“What about that one night when… Yeah, you’re right.”

 

They arched and scurried along corridors until they were nearly at Gryffindor Tower. It was nearing the end of term, and Filch was on the prowl more often these days. But Seamus seemed determined to see them back safely. Dean watched him as his eyes narrowed down dark side corridors. As if he were a cat. As if he were scoping out a cat mate.

 

“What are you doing?” Dean hissed as Seamus veered to the left. “Dorm’s this way.”

 

“Don’t be a plonker, I know where the dorm is,” Seamus said, swatting at Dean’s arm.

 

“Well then-”

 

“Ah, this’ll do.” Seamus dragged Dean into a chilly, nearly pitch black side corridor. Their only light was a torch nearly thirty feet away. Dean was pretty sure that was a spider crawling up his trouser leg. He shivered and smashed his eyelids shut.

 

“Seamus, what –”

 

“I had a really good time tonight,” Seamus cut across him. His violently blue eyes dug under Dean’s dark ones, so bright in the darkness Dean tore his gaze away.

 

Dean hesitated. He crossed his arms. “Agreed, tonight was fun,” he said. “But we do this every week.”

 

Seamus rolled his eyes impatiently and stepped toward Dean, close enough for Dean to smell him, faintly cinnamon and musk and just _warm_. Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he looked down at his best friend, a lot closer than he’d bargained for. But he hadn’t missed how Seamus laughed extra loud at his jokes tonight in the Three Broomsticks. Didn’t miss how his freckled hand slid perilously close to Dean’s on the carved wooden booth they shared with the others. But it was Seamus, Merlin’s sake. He wasn’t expecting anything, and even if –

 

“We don’t do _this_ every week,” Seamus said matter-of-factly, and Dean’s thoughts were cut short as Seamus’s lips met his, soft and warm enough to heat up the entire corridor.

 

“Mfff,” Dean managed, and Seamus swallowed Dean’s noise of surprise, conveniently timed into the boy’s mouth. It was like overthinking was never a thing. Like Dean didn’t spend too much time wondering what the hell was going to happen to them when they got out of there. Square hands pulled apart crossed arms and clutched Dean’s chest. Seamus nearly stood on the tops of his toes to reach into the kiss. Dean pressed back into the kiss, lightly at first, and without knowing how they got there, he had Seamus pinned against the opposite wall, a stone probably jutting into Seamus’s back, but Dean couldn’t be bothered, and neither could Seamus it seemed, too busy arching into Dean’s touch.

 

His arms caged Seamus in, their lips melding together like this was the most natural way to end the night, like they’d done it a thousand times, like keeping his wanking sessions over Seamus to himself was the stupidest thing Dean had ever done. Like why not _sooner_? What was he thinking with Ginny?

 

Dean pulled back gently from soft lips, his hand still at the base of Seamus’s neck.

 

“Was there alcohol in that Butterbeer?” he asked. Seamus’s eyes were droopy, a lazy grin spreading across his face. His shining, puffy lips didn’t escape Dean’s notice. “I didn’t think you had any –”

 

Seamus’s brow knitted together. He almost looked offended. “I haven’t had anything to drink, honest. You would smell it on me.”

 

“Then what – why –” Dean really couldn’t think. Forget pretending.

 

“The way you were talking about your art – your process… thing – it kind of…” Seamus trailed off. Dean watched him in bemusement. “Turned me on?”

 

A trickle of heat made its way down Dean’s neck. He gave a small shudder and a loud laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth, looking out into the main corridor. “How has my art talk not bored you after six bloody years?”

 

“Bored me?” Seamus asked. “It’s brilliant. It’s like you see something, think of something, and there it is on paper. It’s magic.”

 

Dean couldn’t help it. He beamed. “I… But I only mentioned art once. When we first sat down.”

 

Seamus nodded. “Hermione asked you how your drawing was going.”

 

Dean bit down hard on his lower lip, eyes on his Converse. “That long?”

 

“I was this close to snogging you in front of all of them,” Seamus whispered darkly.

 

Dean laughed, expecting it a little more this time Seamus’s lips met his, warm and open and wanting. For a second Seamus paused, drawing back infinitesimally, a silent question on his tongue before his mouth was on Dean’s again. Dean opened his mouth, smiling into the kiss, and wrapped his arms tight around his friend.

 

~*~

 

After they stumbled through the portrait hole and climbed the steps to the boys’ dormitory, Dean thought he might’ve imagined the whole thing. Maybe that’s what happened when you stayed out too late talking about classmates and the future and being turned on with Seamus Finnigan. Seamus had stopped responding to Dean several yards before they even caught sight of the portrait hole. The last thing Dean had asked him was whether he’d thought about kissing him before. He’d only gotten a meek smile in response. Maybe that was too much at once. Maybe it was too much at all.

 

“Rosmerta’s still a looker.” Seamus sighed wistfully, unbuttoning his shirt next to his bed and tossing it on the floor.

 

“Isn’t she?” Ron mumbled in his sleep.

 

“Pick that up,” Neville grumbled. “I tripped on a shirt last week, and I’d bet ten Galleons it was your ugly flannel.”

 

“Hey,” Dean said. “I have flannels. So does Ron.”

 

“Pffff,” was Neville’s answer, and two seconds later his elephantine snores echoed throughout the dormitory.

 

Dean’s eyes followed Seamus as he flopped onto his bed, wrapping his duvet around him. With his back to Dean, it was like the roughest patch of fifth year all over again. _You’re expecting too much, you wanker_.

 

“Goodnight,” he mumbled half-heartedly.

 

“What? Oh, night, mate,” Seamus said, too cheerily.

 

Dean blinked. Lying down fully clothed, he drew the curtains on his four-poster slower than ever. What the hell just happened?

 

 _He’s going to skive off. He’s going to skive off_ , Dean told himself as he pulled his socks on the next morning. But Seamus didn’t. He walked with Dean to Transfiguration like always. Except now he waited for Ron and Harry and the rest of them to join, too.

 

~*~

 

One Week Later

 

Professor Binns had been lecturing since birth. Dean Thomas was sure of it. It was their last History of Magic class before final exams, but it was the same as always: quiet, monotonous… Binns’s voice sounded like it was coated with a thick layer of dust. Every year he just repeated himself. Read from his journal, probably. _What if this isn’t even real?_ Dean constantly wondered. Maybe they were just hearing from Binns’s dream catalog, and every Hogwarts student had a skewed perception of wizarding history because of this old codger. Honestly, it was so dreadful that Dean often forgot Binns was even a ghost. Being dead was just a part of his personality. He could be preaching about goblins in his grave, and he’d sound just as far away.

 

And Dean had read about ghosts in the library. (Partly in search of material to creep out Seamus a couple Halloweens ago.) He knew you only came back as a ghost if you had some kind of unfinished business on earth. _Which means_ , Dean thought darkly as he lifted his eyes to watch Binns floating behind his desk, _that Binns’s unfinished business is teaching History of Magic to unwilling, trapped students_. What a miserable old gaffer.

 

Dean let out a breath, a half-sigh, an almost-whistle. His eyes flicked over to Seamus, flopped pathetically over his desk to the right of him. Seamus was always simple: when he was tired, he slept. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was restless, he played Quidditch. When he was horny, his lips were on Dean.

 

Dean cleared his throat. _Not now_ , he pleaded.

 

He slid a sketchbook out from under his poor excuse for a History of Magic notebook. When his eyelids started to droop was when he knew it was time to pull out the sketchbook and draw something, anything, to keep his interest – enough to stay awake, at least.

 

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath when he realized he only had his book of watercolor paper on him. Binns may be both dead and oblivious, but Dean wasn’t about to pull out his watercolors from his canvas bag in the middle of class. Not that they weren’t in there somewhere.

 

One light line followed another, a couple scratches of shading here and there. He let his left hand take him as it would, let the quill make its mark on the watercolor paper. Blended. Up, down. He tuned out Binns’s goblin lecture – the goblins could be shagging for all he cared – and let the quill become a natural extension of his long fingers, skating and swirling across the paper. He cast his eyes downward and kept them there.

 

There was an outline of a passed-out-over-his-table sandy-haired boy on Dean’s sketchbook.

 

He’d only been vaguely aware of what shapes his hand was forming. _Yeah right,_ he told himself, snorting out loud. Hermione looked over at him shrewdly. He gave her a weak smile. Only _vaguely aware_ of his huge, gross crush on his best mate, more like. He should be able to think about Seamus without his heart thudding so hard in his chest he felt ill. He should be able to draw without his hands’ go-to portrait being his best mate’s smiling face. Or asleep face. Or pensive face. Bored face. Face warmed by the Gryffindor common room fire. Leaning out the Hogwarts express and laughing face. Silly face. Moody face. Orgasm face. _Fuck,_ this was inappropriate.

 

Dean cleared his throat, his hands knocking into his desk in his hurry to toss the History of Magic notebook back on top his sketchbook. Hermione looked over at him in concern. Damn it all, she probably saw his sketch. She probably knew everything. She could probably read his mind, even. She was sixth year dynamite.

 

As it turned out, Binns was only oblivious most of the time.

 

“Ahhh…” Binns let out a sigh and turned slightly in Dean’s general direction.

 

“Mr. Turnpot?” Binns wheezed. “Keep it down.” Amused heads turned to Dean. “Oh, and give Finnigan a nudge for me.”

 

 _A stroke of luck_ , Dean thought, exchanging an impressed glance with Ron. That was the first time Binns had ever gotten a name right, probably in the entire history of History of Magic.

 

Seamus had been breathing soundly in the wooden seat next to Dean, mouth stretched open against his right arm that reached over his desk, his freckled hand dangling uselessly off the edge.

 

Dean hated to wake him up. He didn’t know what new feeling might be in those bright eyes. Something new stirred in his stomach every time he’d looked at him since that night after Hogsmeade. Dean couldn’t think about it without his face burning and every inch of his skin growing hot, which he told himself over and over was normal. But Seamus hadn’t said a word about it – not that he was ignoring Dean, he was just ignoring The Gay Thing – and Dean hadn’t yet worked up the courage to plan something to say that wouldn’t make his voice crack. Soon, though. Maybe. _I mean, for God’s sakes, I’ve walked in on him wanking to a Witch Weekly spread of the lead singer of The Weird Sisters. It’s not a bloody secret, so what’s he playing at acting like such a first year about it?_

 

He slipped his ankle out into the aisle and hooked his purple Converse around Seamus’s grey and red Calvin Klein shoes. They had been Dean’s Christmas present to Seamus last year, and they were possibly the only thing Seamus had ever taken close care of in his whole, messy life.

 

Dean wrenched Seamus’s foot toward him.

 

“Whaaa?” Seamus yelped, earning himself a ghostly glare from Binns. Dean willed the corners of his mouth into a straight line. Seamus’s short hair stuck straight up on top. He reminded Dean forcefully of an indignant, sleepy hedgehog. A sleepy hedgehog that was awfully skilled at snogging. Dean cleared his throat, as if that would actually decrease his chances of a mid-History of Magic boner. Dean tried to imagine Umbridge in a pink bubble bath, Filch offering her Pinot Noir in a cat-shaped wine glass. Aaand yep, that did it.

 

“What’d you do that for?” Seamus hissed, leaning toward Dean.

 

Dean whipped out his watercolor book and tore out his sketch of Seamus. Shit. He hadn’t meant to rip that one out. _Just crinkle it up_ , Dean thought, and did so. There were more where that came from.

 

On an empty side of the boxy wad of paper, Dean scrawled:

 

_You snored so loud Binns jumped through the blackboard and back._

 

With a tap of his wand, he soared it over to Seamus, who sniggered when he read it and scribbled back:

 

_Did not. You’re the snorer._

 

Dean shook his head, only somewhat in mock offense. He swore he could feel Hermione’s eyes on him.

 

_I’m a perfect, quiet angel when I sleep._

 

Dean watched Seamus sideways as he wrote back.

 

_In your dreams._

 

Seamus dragged a hand through his hair and kicked the messy 8 ball of a note back to Dean with his Calvin Kleins.

 

Dean’s hand definitely didn’t shake as he replied in his cramped cursive:

 

_What is?_

 

He kicked it back.

 

_My lovely, freckled visage._

 

Dean snorted. Seamus had no idea how he showed up in Dean’s dreams. No idea the roles he’d played for years. On top, underneath, freckled arms wrapped around Dean’s waist…

 

_I’d sooner shack up with the Giant Squid._

 

_That’s foul, mate._

 

Dean wrote through a huge, stupid grin that threatened to reveal teeth.

 

_I dreamt I was best man at yours and Hermione’s wedding._

 

Seamus snorted. Ron turned around, an eyebrow raised, a small smile playing across his face.

 

_You know how many ways Ron would kill me?_

 

Dean’s brow knitted together. Ron turned back around, head in his hands.

 

_Enlighten me._

 

Seamus smirked at Dean and pocketed the note ball.

 

~*~

 

As the afternoon turned into evening, Dean lay on his stomach by the Black Lake, watercolors out, attempting to make the rippling water shimmer under the white hot sun on paper just like it did five feet in front of him. If only his hand would steady. If only his shining waves didn’t look more like a glob of bird poo rather than a sun kissed lake. Maybe if he just looked away for a minute and looked back, that usually worked…

 

His eyes bore into the Black Lake for so long he began to feel dizzy, as if he were about to tip forward off the muddy-grassy edge. Maybe if he went for a swim he could clear his mind and go back to his painting in a bit. Well, maybe just one more shimmery smudge–

 

Two things happened almost simultaneously. Too quick for Dean to even see what direction they came from. A hollering rally cry of a yell sounded. Not a second later, a gigantic _splash!_ split the fiery May air.

 

His head jerked up, staring down into the lake that was just still a moment ago. A frown spread across Dean’s face as he watched the nearly opaque, dark water rippling in massive circles. _Guess the watercolors will wait._

 

And then a sandy-haired boy emerged from the water’s surface with another big _splash_ , water darkened hair falling slick on his forehead. Seamus gasped and paddled his arms frantically. Tossing his head back and forth dog like, he flung his hair around, again mastering the hedgehog effect. He kicked to keep himself afloat. Spat out a mouthful of water. A chorus of raucous laughter and cheering resounded nearby. “100 POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!” someone shouted in mirth.

 

Dean didn’t look for whoever yelled. He simply stared, incredulous. He couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Seamus, what the hell, mate?”

 

“Didn’t you see that?” Seamus roared from the water.

 

“See what?” Dean rocked back on his heels.

 

“Aw, no. You’re kidding.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow.

 

“I was on fire!”

 

On fire. _Oh boy_. If literally anyone else were to tell Dean that, he’d be yelling and casting Aguamenti repeatedly. But Seamus? Seamus had been on fire more times than Dean could count. Seamus’s past time was catching fire. It may be possible that Seamus was more often in flames than out of them.

 

“On fire?” Dean repeated. “Really?” The corner of his mouth quirked.

 

Seamus practically catapulted half the Black Lake into Dean’s face.

 

“No way,” Dean hollered, and without hesitating, yanked his thin black T-shirt off and jumped into the lake with Seamus.

 

“Oi!” Seamus yelled, jerking back from the splash, his pale eyelashes blinking water away furiously. Dean smirked.

 

“So what was it this time?” Dean asked. “Sir Flame-Immune.”

 

“I am _not_ flame immune,” Seamus said seriously.

 

“Seamus,” Dean said through a chuckle. “If anyone else at this school was on fire half as much as you are, they’d be dead by now.”

 

Seamus nodded his approval. “So I’m a fire god.”

 

Dean tilted his head sideways, kicking his feet below him.

 

“Sure. So what now?”

 

Seamus’s face lit up, eager to tell his story. He didn’t seem perturbed at all by the fact that Dean wasn’t impressed as anyone else may have been that he had just survived being on fire.

 

“So Pansy Parkinson was saying something nasty to Hermione, follow?” Seamus began, nearly tripping over his words in his haste to get them out.

 

The sun beamed down on them, but Dean shivered as Seamus swam closer. Several students were under a large beech tree several yards away. Some were laughing, working, dueling maybe… Dean wasn’t entirely sure. He could never be entirely sure when Seamus’s lips were involved. (He willed them to stop doing the thing. The whole moving thing.)

 

“And Hermione gives her a little glare, tries to ignore her. Mind you, it’s just Hermione. No help today. I had to step in, right?” Seamus’s brilliant blue eyes were intensified by his enthusiasm for his story.

 

Dean didn’t say anything, just dipped his head back into the water and closed his eyes against the burning sun. Somehow he was still cold.

 

“Right?” Seamus repeated.

 

Dean picked his head up.

 

“I’m just trying to piece together how this ends with you on fire.”

 

“I’m getting there!” Seamus pushed. “So anyway, I notice Pansy reaching for her wand like the little pug-faced slime-ball she is. But I got there first,” Seamus said, lifting his chin. “Cast Expelliarmus on the tool, and I think she tried to do a Shield Charm or something. ‘Cept she didn’t say anything. She must’ve been trying to do that nonverbal tripe Snape just taught us –”

 

Dean cackled.

 

“-only something went wrong and instead of getting Expelliarmus back in my face, me trousers caught on fire. So I run over, toss off my things in the process – everything but the trousers – and cannonball straight into this.” He spread his arms wide in a grand gesture, what Dean supposed was a _Thank you, Black Lake, for accommodating me in this time of need_.

 

Dean let out a high-pitched noise: amusement, surprise, he didn’t know what else. Seamus made a movement like an underwater bow and Dean threw his head back laughing. It hit the water with a _slap_.

 

“That’s a new one for you, mate. This is –” But just then a near-glowing figure strolled up and towered over them at the edge of the water, arms crossed. Dean squinted up above the lake, Seamus following his gaze distractedly.

 

Hermione Granger stood there staring down at them, fully clothed in her Hogwarts uniform and Gryffindor robes. The sun beat down on her back so that she was just a dark outline. It was hard to make out her face, anyway, under that halo of hair spreading out from her bushy ponytail that puffed around her temples and spiraled past her neck.

 

“Seamus,” she called. “Dean.”

 

“Hey, Hermione,” Dean yelled over the water. He grinned in an attempt at being polite despite his shirtlessness. And Seamus’s.

 

“All that wasn’t totally necessary, Seamus,” Hermione said, raising a brow. She pressed her lips together. “But thanks.” Her cloud-blocked frown curved into a smile as she added, “And I’m glad you’re alright.”

 

“Cheers,” Seamus said, beaming. “It’s not every day I’m on fire, you know.”

 

“Nearly,” Hermione replied, and pulled her cloud of hair off her neck. She hitched her schoolbag higher up on her shoulder and turned to take off. “See you two around,” she called behind her.

 

“Blimey! What the heat does to that hair,” Seamus said, trying to catch Dean’s eye.

 

Dean scoffed. “Oh, come off it. You fancy her.” He shut his mouth and subsequently swallowed a mouthful of lake. He hadn’t meant for that to come out. He knew it wasn’t true, anyway. Why did his mouth do these things?

 

“Don’t be thick,” Seamus scoffed. _Splash_. “Big difference between ‘look at that hair’ and ‘I fancy her.’”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, kicking back toward the grassy ledge and his watercolors.

 

“What, are you jealous?” Seamus called as Dean collapsed on the grass, feeling around for his shirt and yanking it back over his head. His neck burned as he started packing up his watercolors, waiting for an answer to crawl to the tip of his tongue. It didn’t come. He didn’t even know what he was doing. He didn’t want to leave but he’d already embarrassed himself by saying something stupid as usual, and the only natural solution was to leave.

 

“Dean!” Seamus hollered as he swam over to him. He hopped up onto the shore and watched Dean gather up his things.

 

“I was only joking –”

 

“Where’s your shirt?” Dean mumbled, gazing openly at Seamus’s freckled chest.

 

Seamus flushed, his dimples surfacing. “I don’t actually know…” He eyed the lawn in the direction Hermione had come from, where all the students were. He glanced at Dean, whose eyes were downcast now. Seamus’s eyes landed on Dean’s painting; it wasn’t too big, wasn’t too small, about the length of Seamus’s knee to his foot, he thought.

 

“What about your shoes?” Dean asked, his eyebrows half raised. He wondered how the hell he’d missed a running, screaming Seamus-on-fire ripping off his shirt and kicking off his shoes. Not to mention cannonballing into the lake at full speed.

 

“Oh, I can see them from here,” Seamus said. “ _Accio_ _shoes_.” And he caught his red and grey sneakers with his right hand.

 

Dean couldn’t bite back his blush of a smile.

 

“That’s really good,” Seamus said, picking up the half finished watercolor of the Black Lake.

 

“Cheers,” Dean said, nodding. He still wished Seamus would put a shirt on. He gently placed the watercolor back in his bag.

 

“Look, you’re painting and I’m on fire. Not a lot has changed, eh?” Seamus gave a glittering grin.

 

Dean shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

 

“Right, well. You-Know-Who back and all.” Seamus rocked side to side. Too far. He reached into a water-shut pocket of his trousers and peeled apart a thin ball of paper clinging to itself.

 

“What’s that?” Dean asked, though he was pretty sure it was their same 8 Ball of notes. Or the remains of it.

 

“I saw the drawing,” Seamus spat out quickly like it was a dirty confession. “Before it turned into this, I mean.”

 

Dean’s throat was suddenly a desert. He forced himself to speak even though he knew there was a 98.9% chance his voice would crack.

 

“Before you jumped in the lake?”

 

His voice didn’t crack. Dean made a mental note to thank God later for that one.

 

“Yeah, I tossed my bag by my bed and flopped down, was almost committed to a nice nap… When I felt this big old thing digging into me thigh.”

 

Dean laughed. Loudly. Without caring what students under what beech trees may be watching. Seamus’s eyes twinkled.

 

“And I opened it, and I looked, like, ‘Merlin, that’s me.’”

 

“It was Ron,” Dean said in his mock persuasive voice. Seamus shoved him and pocketed the note ball.

 

“It was me, you dork,” Seamus said. His voice broke. Just slightly.

 

Dean looked down at his chest, leaning back on his palms in the grass. “Yeah, it was.”

 

Never in his life had Dean listened more closely to chirping birds or the wind in the trees or his classmates laughing. He felt Seamus’s gaze on him, close and hot. Scrutinizing. Waiting.

 

Dean rubbed at his nose. Just for something to do. “So you came out here…”

 

“To find you. I got the idea you wanted to tell me something, or… something,” Seamus slowed down as he spoke. “Christ,” he muttered, so softly Dean almost didn’t pick up on it.

 

“What do you want me to say?” Dean asked, forcing himself to look into Seamus’s face. But Seamus’s piercing eyes were trained on the blades of grass he was braiding at his feet.

 

Seamus huffed. “Whatever you want.”

 

“I wanna… I want to know what you want,” Dean said, wishing they were somewhere a lot more private than the bloody Hogwarts Lawn. He felt dull all of a sudden, like the memory of everything he ever found funny was sucked right out of him.

 

Seamus squinted at him, and Dean had an inkling it wasn’t just because of the sun.

 

“Mate,” Seamus said, eyes boring into Dean’s. He leaned in close, as if there were Merpeople close by listening in. Which, Dean figured, there could have been. “I’m the one that kissed _you_.” His voice was unusually low, sending chills all the way up to Dean’s scalp. He shivered. And tried to cover up his obvious reaction by raising his voice.

 

“So now it’s my turn?” Dean half-shouted.

 

Seamus thought about it. Furrowed his brow and threw his hands in the air. “Well, yeah.”

 

Dean rubbed his thumb and index finger across his forehead. Then threw them off like they burned. “Then just, would you get your arse over here and kiss me again?" he exclaimed, anger flaring and erasing his anxiety. Most of it, anyway. Merlin, what was tact?

 

Seamus’s mouth curled up at the corner. Dean’s heart stopped. Seamus leaned toward Dean and snuck a glance out toward the lawn.

 

“In front of all these gits?” Seamus asked, mock polite. Dean’s heart slammed into his ribcage. Again. And again.

 

“I don’t care if the bloody Minister for Magic sees. Or Tony Blair. Or Bill Clinton.”

 

“Who’s that, eh?” Seamus asked, his face one huge dimpled grin. Dean actually looked like he was considering answering, but Seamus lunged forward, wrapped a square hand around the back of Dean’s neck, and closed the remaining gap between them. Forcefully. Seamus pushed Dean clear on the grass. Dean’s lips pressed back fervently against Seamus until he opened his mouth against Seamus’s tongue and everything was wet and hot and Dean was raking a thin hand through Seamus’s sun dried hair and thinking he might come just from the soft pull of it. Seamus made a noise like a wounded animal, all whining and breathy, as Dean pushed him back up into a sitting position, one warm hand on a freckled cheek and one on a freckled arm. Kissing and grinning and smelling the salty lake and feeling the hot sun and Seamus’s eyelashes against his cheeks and –

 

“OI!” A shriek pulled them apart, Dean jumping out of reach of Seamus’s hand still reaching out for Dean’s jaw –

 

“ABOUT TIME, BLOKES!”

 

Hannah Abbott stood under a tree several yards away, a long braid in her hair. She clutched a branch and giggled with Ernie Macmillan, who gave Dean and Seamus thumbs up. Dean’s face struggled to bite back his grin.

 

“Only been four bloody years,” they heard as she turned back to Ernie. They erupted in a fit of laughter.

 

Seamus’s face was as red as Ron’s hair. Dean grabbed his floating hand and wrapped his fingers around it, bringing their hands down to rest on Dean’s knee. Dean’s heart felt so full, it was in danger of bursting.

 

“They knew? About us? I mean, not _us_ , but…” Seamus reached up to close his own mouth. It was a wonder Dean could make out what he was even saying; it came out more like an incredulous gasp and a mumbled rant.

 

“They knew, I guess. Did you?” Dean’s daring streak hadn’t gone away yet. He assumed it would when the butterflies in his chest died out. And he was pretty sure those were immortal.

 

“Since I heard you talking about West Ham first year and Ron thought you were barmy when you hung up those posters. Remember he tried to poke them with his wand to get them to move? And I thought yeah, barmy… and I want some.” Seamus was quiet for a moment after he spoke, his thumb stroking the back of Dean’s hand. Dean’s stomach did a somersault. He gave a small smile and closed his eyes into the touch, wondering if Seamus even knew what he was doing.

 

“It’s all bollocks,” Dean heard himself saying after a few moments. Hannah and Ernie were still shooting glances.

 

“Bollocks?” Seamus shot. “How?”

 

Dean breathed out, deep. He bent forward over his knees. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

 

Seamus pulled on his ankles, rocking backward.

 

“I don’t know,” he said through his teeth. Exasperated. Dean knew it was his fault, damn it. “Why didn’t you?”

 

Dean ran his hands through his close-cropped hair and let them fall to his lap. He twisted them nervously. He just wanted to reach out and pull Seamus’s fingers toward him, but he felt he’d pissed him off again.

 

“I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Things felt right. I didn’t think you’d get it,” Dean groaned.

 

Seamus’s huge grin spread across his face, erasing worry lines. Dean was going to reach for his hand. Three… two…

 

“I get it, mate,” Seamus said, leaning forward and brushing shoulders with Dean.

 

Dean let out a deep laugh. “Well… Good.” _I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t._

 

Seamus grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the castle. Traipsing across the lawn, Lavender Brown shuffled out from seemingly nowhere and held out her hands to their chests.

 

“Sorry to bother you lovebirds,” she squealed. Dean and Seamus exchanged glances. “But I need a photo. For my scrapbook.” She bounced on the heels of her sparkly sandals.

 

“Scrapbook?” Dean asked, inclining his head.

 

“Let’sjustgetthisoverwith,” Seamus mumbled, and Dean missed the warmth of Seamus’s hand in his as Seamus let go to take hold of Dean’s arm instead. He stuck his tongue out and made a loud choking noise as Dean, so much taller than him, cornered his neck in the crook of his elbow.

 

“Eugh, you guys!” Lavender whined as she snapped the photo. “That’s horrific! A cute pose, now.” She pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and raised the camera with purpose.

 

Seamus grabbed Dean, pulling him down and snogging the wits out of him. The Hogwarts grounds echoed with Lavender’s screams for days.

 

~*~

 

Friday night, Ron and Harry were in the common room celebrating the calm before the storm that was final exams and Neville was off Merlin knows where doing Merlin knows what with Luna Lovegood. Seamus lounged next to Dean on his bed, palm on Dean’s thigh, heart hammering in his chest. A pile of sweets wrappers lay strewn across the maroon duvet, firewhisky bottles leaning against and tucked under bare legs. Dean’s breathing picked up as he opened his mouth to ask Seamus what he felt was a Very Important Question.

 

“What do you think I’m gonna _be_ … when I’m an old bloke?”

 

Seamus burst out laughing so hard he started slipping off the bed. Dean grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

 

“Isn’t the –” Seamus gasped, tightening his clutch on Dean’s thigh. Dean swallowed hard. “Isn’t the point –” he let out a stream of giggles. “Isn’t the – Aren’tcha supposed to be… ask… what _I_ wann’be?”

 

“Fine, what are _you_ gonna be, O Mastermind?” Dean said, rolling his eyes and taking a swig of firewhisky.

 

A thought struck Seamus and he slammed his empty hand on the duvet. “A playwright,” he shouted. “Nahhh, an artist. Nah, a singer. I’ma be sooo famous.” He nudged Dean, cackling.

 

“Famous singer, eh?” Dean nodded. He turned his head so their faces were maybe an inch apart. He slid his hand on top of Seamus’s, resting on his thigh. “What’re your songs abo-”

 

“You,” Seamus blurted before Dean could get the whole word out. Dean swore his face caught fire. Then Seamus opened his mouth and shout-sang:

 

_I never learned right from wrong_

_Till the day I set lonely eyes on you_

_Baby, they can listen to my songs_

_I don’t care, it’s all for… youuuuuu_

Seamus’s singing was slurred and the last “you” ended up a crackling squee of a scream. Dean snorted heartily.

“Celestina Warbeck? Seamus, now is the time?” Dean let out a loud sigh. Seamus wasn’t a half bad singer, he was quite good actually, but firewhisky and Celestina Warbeck wasn’t exactly a good combination for Dean. Merlin knew he had too many emotions without either of them. He tried to rationalize before he got in too deep. “I mean, she’s a terrible lyricist. She just rhymed ‘you’ with ‘you.’”

 

“You think she writes the songs?” Seamus looked at him incredulously, leaning into Dean and nearly toppling out of the four-poster again.

 

“I dnnnnoooo,” Dean said, shrugging. “You’re asking a lot. Hey!” He said, nudging Seamus’s chest. “ _You_ … could be her songwriter.”

 

Seamus shook his head vehemently. “Sod off, I’m no one’s songwriter. I’m making it all on my own, Dean, aaaaaall on my ooown.” He looked down at Dean’s hand that somehow still rested on his chest. “Hullo,” he said.

 

Dean smirked and rubbed his fingers in drunken circles over Seamus’s collarbones, dipping under the white button up that was now several buttons undone.

 

Seamus cleared his throat, but when he spoke it was still husky. “We both know you’ll be a faaamous artist.” His hand moved up Dean’s thigh ever so slightly.

 

“I dnnnooooo,” Dean repeated, winding up the O like he was singing back at Seamus.

 

“Oh, come _off_ it,” Seamus shouted. “You’re the best bloody artist in this – no, fuck – you’re the best in the world. Youuu could make millllllllions of galleons.”

 

Dean grinned and then gasped as Seamus’s hand inched higher up. The heat between Seamus’s palm and Dean’s thigh was excruciating. But he didn’t want to stop talking yet.

 

“So… We’ll be rich’n famous. Together.”

 

“Sounds alright” – Seamus burped and Dean snorted – “to me.” He made another wounded animal moan as Dean’s fingernails scratched down his chest.

 

“Oh, that was nice,” Dean said, and immediately slapped a hand to his mouth. “Wasn’t meant to be aloud, sorry…”

 

Seamus caught his hand. “I liked it,” he said. “Do it _again_.” And before Dean could think of something clever to say in response, Seamus’s mouth was on him, hot cinnamon and sweat and something earthy, like leaves or grass... All he knew was Seamus rolling on top of him and – fuck, he couldn’t think.

 

“Seam-” Dean got out between kisses. Seamus’s hips were in Dean’s palms, straddling Dean’s thighs, and Dean had no idea how they got there.

 

“Mmmm?” Seamus replied, a pathetic question, his lips trailing down Dean’s jaw and coming back to plant a huge wet kiss on Dean’s nose.

 

“What’s our – what’s our first Big Thing?”

 

Seamus snorted. “First big thing? W’the hell are you on?”

 

“Like, first… What are we gonna do when we get out…ta here?”

 

There were a few moments of silence before Seamus said, “You mean when Harry defeats You-Know-Who and we all get out of here alive and live happily ever after?”

 

Dean frowned. “You’re going… to live… Seamus.” He said it as slowly and deliberately as he could.

 

Seamus hung his head. “Dean, I know you don’t get the Prophet, but c’mon. We’re in s’much danger s’when You-Know-Who destroyed everything the first bloody time. We’re-”

 

“Alright,” Dean said, pulling Seamus’s straying hand back to his thigh. “Alright, Seamus, Ijust –”

 

“No,” Seamus said firmly, flicking Dean’s hand off and clutching at his hair. He sat back on Dean's thighs. “I d’wanna blindly believe I’m gonna make it out alright. I can’t let meself think Expelliarmus is reeeeally gonna keep me alive. An’… what’f I lose _you_? What’f Harry, Ron or… What if he kills us all, burns the place, s’no Hogwarts left? ‘S gonna happen?” Seamus’s voice that had been bold – albeit slurred – had disintegrated to a squeak.

 

“Shh,” Dean said, sitting up and pulling Seamus into him. “None of that is gonna happen. Know why?”

 

Seamus didn’t say anything. Dean ruffled his hair and ran a hand down his side.

 

“Because Harry’s a bloody genius.”

 

A sleepy silence fell over the room. The only noise was skin on skin as Dean’s hand marked trails on Seamus’s arm. Crickets chirped outside. Bottles clanked together at their feet. Seamus sat back up and rubbed the back of his neck, and in a blink the pair was nearly crying laughing.

 

“Harry, a genius,” Seamus managed, clutching his sides.

 

Dean shook his head, laughing so hard he was speechless, tears nearly spilling over his cheeks.

 

“Phewwwblimey,” Seamus said, his hand high up on Dean’s thigh again. “Remember in the middle of the night fourth year, he thought he could sneak out in with that bloody cloak…” Seamus trailed off, laughing. Dean watched him as he tilted his head back against the bedpost, his stomach shaking with the effort of keeping control. “Said he wanta ‘check something.’ Bet you anything he went to meet Cedric in the loo.”

 

Dean scoffed. “More like, remember that time last week he did th’same thing?”

 

“Cedric –”

 

“ _You_ know who t’is.”

 

“Dean, you’re not making any-”

 

“He’s been following that slimy blonde berk around like he owes him something.”

 

Slowly they turned their heads to face each other. Seamus’s eyes widened as Dean’s narrowed.

 

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Seamus whispered.

 

“It’s Malfoy,” Dean echoed. “Harry’s doing Malfoy.” And then he fell off the bed, shouting with laughter. Seamus stepped around the bed frame barefoot, no trousers, and grabbed another firewhisky from under Dean’s bed.

 

“Shit!” Seamus exclaimed, his eyes growing wide again. “We got it aaaall wrong.”

 

Dean raised both eyebrows, hanging onto Seamus’s knees with anticipation.

 

“I think Malfoy’s the one doing Harry,” Seamus said simply.

 

Spit flew everywhere as Dean spluttered his laughter into Seamus’s freckled face.

 

“God, I’m gonna be sooo ripped after laughing this much.”

 

Seamus only laughed, his head resting on the baseboard. He sighed and took a swig of his Firewhisky.

 

“Hey,” Dean said, taking the bottle from him and chugging. Seamus watched in disbelief. “You never said what our first Big Thing would be.”

 

“Big Thing…” Seamus said, tearing his eyes away from the bottle and stroking an imaginary beard. His sort of-stubble didn’t quite cut it. His eyes cast around the room for ideas. Dean watched him, all too eager to know what Seamus would do first post-Voldemort. And _Lumos_ must have been cast on an answer, because Seamus’s face lit up like a charm.

 

“Yeah?” Dean prompted.

 

“I’m gonnaaaa… I’m gonnaaa give _you_ the best fucking orgasm of your life. I’m gonna make you come so hard you don’t know which hand you draw with,” Seamus said as if that were the most logical, casual thing he had ever said.

 

Dean stared. He had no feeling left in his face. He leaned up to smack the firewhisky down onto the bedside table and swayed.

 

“I meant after– Y'sure you want to wait-”

 

“Hell no, thaaaat’s too far in the future. Gonna take care of that one… right now. An'then I'll do it again tomorrow, when we'll both 'member it.”

 

Splintering glass echoed through the room as Seamus bumped into the bedside cabinet on his first attempt at standing up. He looked at Dean, shrugged, and pulled him up onto the bed. He fell backward, Dean toppling rather nicely over him. He ripped off Dean’s shirt and licked a hot trail up his neck, earning him a moan louder and more beautiful than anything Seamus had ever heard.

 

The future could wait.


End file.
